YO BITCH: LESS TALK MORE LATTE!

I don’t get mad very often, but when it comes to “goods and services”, I have zero-patience for anything less than EXACTLY WHAT I WANT.

I experienced a slight deviation from “what I want” this morning, as I visited my #1 latte shoppe (or that little-known place called Starbucks).

I had a day-off you see, and though it really switched up my morning-process, “latte-acquisition” remained top of mind.  

It was one of those mornings where I wished long and hard for a loyal monkey-butler.  Yes…“home-delivered lattes”, what a dream…

Well guess what: my monkey-butler-bitch is still en-route to Canada (current status: half way across the Atlantic on a cargo ship from Africa), so for today anyway, I was grudgingly resigned to leaving the goddamn house.

The suckiest thing about “leaving the goddamn house” was having to ditch my PJ’s.  Yeah, apparently “teddy bear prints” aren’t socially acceptable (ohhh….well I’m sorry I’m so fucking cute).  I wasn’t about to make a full-on compromise, so I only committed half-way; that is, I swapped out my PJ bottoms for my hot-ass exercise pants.  My motivation here was to leave all the men out there thinking: “hey, who’s that bitch in the ass-hugging workout pants? She must’ve just finished a yoga class or something…what a cool slut”.  That’s right, you force me to go outside? I will make you fucking drool.

When I finally arrived at Starbucks, my patience was level-zero, and my latte-thirst was mile-fucking-high.

As I rushed on over to the latte machine, the tall young barista caught my eye.  NO he wasn’t a “hottie”, but more like your “run of the mill”, “average-joe”, psycho-looking FREAK.

We ended up having a chat (against my will), and here’s how that all went:

Barista-dude begins with:  “SO, HOW IS YOUR DAY SO FAR???” (picture him saying it VERY loudly) 

I muster up a smile and think to myself: “Oh God, this is one of those small-talk-loving fuck-heads; I am probably in for the worst 5 minutes of my life”.

[Side-note: I am NOT a bitch, but when pre-disposed to being "cranky-as-fuck", I just want a goddman latte to make my world okay.  Like seriously, interacting with baristas when I'm waiting for a coffee is "priority #: NEVER!!" (fucking losers who talk to strangers...) ]

So anyway, this stupid man-bitch just wouldn’t let up on the small talk!  He actually went on to make it special, deepening our exchange with his “cult-leader” eyes and “I’m gonna cut up your body parts and put them in my freezer” smile.

And here’s how that went…

Psycho-Cult-Man: “Can I…share my opinion with you?”

WHAT—THE—FUCK…

Me: “Sure…..”

Psycho-Cult-Man: “I just wanted to give you a little recommendation about your latte…”

Me: (dumbfounded stare)

Psycho-Cult-Man: “I strongly feel that you should skip the “regular nutmeg”, and instead try our special “holiday nutmeg”.  In my experience (self-righteous tone), I find that the regular nutmeg over-powers the drink, whereas….(blah, blah, blah, he went on about nutmeg for another 5 minutes)…But hey, that’s just my “barista-expert” opinion” (picture the axe-murderer-smile once again…)

Me: “riiiiiighhht…okay” (just give me my fucking latte BITCH!!!)

So 2 or 3 hours later, I walked out of Starbucks at last, shaking my head in a “did that seriously happen?” kinda way. I mean come on people, I spend five whole dollars to get myself a latte and LEAVE; I can do without the life-altering-foreplay-ridden-slut-bag-conversation about “nutmeg”, especially when it’s had with a psycho-freak who wants to chop me up and save all my fingernails…

Loser.

Final thought: whether or not I was a cranky-bitch is open to debate, but I will seriously kick some fucking ass (yours, your mom’s, a baby’s) if this ever happens again.

SUPER-Embarrassing Moment #1: Fruit Punch Anyone?

So my therapist and I were on the phone the other day (both of us shirtless and eating cake), and we were brainstorming new and creative ways to “flush out the crazy”.  He suggested a useful little trick: to browse through my thoughts, and extract my most embarrassing moments. 

It’s almost like a ”trust exercise”, between myself and…myself?

And that brings me to a brand new 5-part series:  My SUPER-Embarrassing Moments. 

Today I’ll begin with Moment #1 (note: “#1″ is not a ranking, this is simply one of the worst…..)

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I was 9 years old. 

A clever and plucky young girl, I was a few short years from womanhood.  Indeed, it was the “Spring” of my life, and appropriately enough, this story unfolds at the cusp of a Canadian Spring…

***

It was my favourite day of the school year: FIELD TRIP!

Destination=”Maple-Syrup Forest”

Objective=”Learn about the production of Canada’s SWEETEST nectar” (no not Celine Dion)

…As I left my house that morning, I put on a big pair of rubber boots, as it was rainy and muddy outside.

When we arrived at the forest, I began my “foresty” stroll, trailing away from the class now and then, examining buckets of sap; it was cool.

After three long hours of ”sap observations”, it was time for a giant lunch. I was feeling extremely parched, so I had 6 glasses of punch with my meal. I was smart enough to hit up the bathroom “post-meal”, but come on…6 glasses of punch right? Right…

As the afternoon wore on, I was all wrapped up in the “syrup-production-process”.  In other words, the cries of my bladder went completely unnoticed.

And later, when the teachers made “last call” for the bathroom (i.e. last opportunity to take a piss/take a dump/jerk off (if you were old enough)), again I was distracted (so busy I was eating wads of “maple candy” that we had gotten at the “Maple Syrup Gift Shoppe”…if you think that I’m joking, you are SO wrong).

So I made my way to my friend, and we strolled on over to her mother’s car (and yes, though I called her “friend”, I’m pretty sure that she called me “hovering/needy/weird kid”, but anyway, details, details..).  I was glad that her mom had been assigned to “car-pool” instead of mine, since my mommy-dearest would’ve likely scared the children (what with her harsh broken English, and Indian-snake-charming powers…let’s just say she’s an acquired taste, okay?).

So I took my seat in the back, and settled right in for a cozy ride home; Enough syrup-talk for one day, I thought, time to go home.

About 10 minutes into the drive, I felt the urge…

It was time,

to take,

A PISS.

And not just an “evening dribble” mind you, oh no, I’m talking about a massive pee-surge, of Niagara-Falls-like proportions.

Hmm…too bad I was sitting in a car, RIGHT?  No toilet or bucket or metal bowl or plastic bag in sight; what to do?

I was feeling extremely nervous, so I decided to look out the window.  As far as I could see, not a rest-stop in sight, just one Maple tree after another.  There was no way in hell I was about to take a piss behind a tree, all savage-like and whatnot (I pride myself on being prim and proper), so I decided to go with plan: “shut the hell up”, a.k.a…HOLD IT IN.

This master plan fell apart within…5 minutes.

A.K.A…..YO, I totally pissed my pants!!!

The worst part was, I wasn’t just standing in a corner, inflicting pissy harm on no one but myself (which I often do and am totally fine with).  Instead, I was sitting down awkwardly, in somebody’s clean upholstered car!! And GET THIS: the upholstery was light gray, so obviously my dark pissy-puddle would show up on the seat.

Now listen, I was pretty new to swearing at the tender age of 9 (as opposed to now…fuckers), but this was one of those times where the girly little voice inside my head screamed out: “FUUCCCKKK!”

Yeah.

Since there was nothing I could do to stop the steady stream, I just let all the pee slowly trickle down my thighs, as it darkened my jeans and landed in a puddle, secured by my impenetrable rubber boots.

When we finally arrived back at school, my heart was beating lightning-fast.  I thought to myself: is there any way to escape the car, WITHOUT my friend’s mom checking out the nasty puddle? (’cause honestly, I didn’t care about sloshing around in my piss-filled boots; all I wanted was a swift escape!)

As luck (or bad luck) would have it, her mom actually opened the car door to let me out.  I removed myself from the car as gingerly as possible (hoping to minimize the “sloshing” sound of all the piss in my boots).  I managed to get out, but suddenly I saw her expression change…she had spotted it: the dark circle of piss, clouding an otherwise gleaming back-seat.

My friend’s bewildered mom didn’t even say a word.  She simply stared at me, in an almost “I feel sorry for this mal-adjusted homeless child” kinda way.

This stare-down lasted only seconds, but it was one of the most mortifying “time stands still” experiences of my life.

ANY-HOO,  it was the end of the day, which meant I didn’t even have to go back to class.  So I turned on my heel, thanked my friend’s mom for the ride, and slowly but surely walked my ass home, one sloshy step at a time.

And that’s why you should never EVER drink more fruit punch than you can handle…or something…shudder.

Why Arranged Marriages ROCK—The Top Ten Quotes That Swayed Me

This post is blazing right out of me, and much like diarrhea, I ain’t gonna fight it.

My name is Romi, and I am of Indian descent (not the “casino” kind, but the “elephants/saris/cab-drivers” kind).

My parents were born in India, but I popped out of mother’s vagina HERE—in beautiful syrupy Canada.  This basically means a couple of things:

#1: My parents expect me to be a nice little Indian girl, like the ones from their native tribe

#2: I’ve spent my whole life being influenced by Western culture (sometimes for better, sometimes for worse)

The most important thing I can do in life, is marry some Indian dude, with super-wicked stats (lotsa money, good family, good genes, good values).  Once this is done, I can turn into an ethnic baby-making-machine, thus fulfilling my spicy destiny.

Since my parents don’t understand/believe in dating (as they associate it with sluts/white people (…sorry) ), my future will come in the form of an arranged marriage (like this one below).

 (look how happy they seem…is that how my future will be?)

Now since I’m already 26, the clock is ticking loudly (side-note: according to “brown years”, my ovulation days will be over by age 28).

All this pressure is making me very nervous.  If anything, I’ve always considered myself to be a passionate, free, and open-minded person; so why all these restrictions?

I just don’t get the “arranged marriage” concept, or at least…I didn’t get it. 

That’s right people, the winds have finally changed, and it’s all because of THIS.  It’s a touching anecdote, where an Indian woman tells me her story, and here it is in a nutshell: she grew up in India, she was “chosen” by some rich-ass Indian/American, she married him on the 3rd meeting, she banged him (awesome), she moved to Manhattan, and she lived happily ever after.

Wow.

If that’s not enough, she left me with a bunch of inspiring quotes. 

So here they are: The Top Ten quotes on why I should get ”arranged” (complete with my enthusiastic reactions ).

(once you’ve read them, tell me what you think: Should Romi get an arranged marriage?  Should you?)

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Why Arranged Marriages ROCK—The Top Ten Quotes That Swayed Me

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#10:  There was something about his demeanor, his soft, lilting voice, and the pleasing way he interacted with my family — frankly, we all fell for him.

I am ALL about my family falling for my dude.  That’s right, “familial orgies”; complete with high tea, soft whispers, and baby oil.  Yeahhhh…..

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#9:  One week later, his mother called my mother, and by the end of the phone call, we were engaged.

You mean…we can get our moms to propose for us? That is SUCH a weight off my shoulders; seriously, I am NOT very good at talking to dudes directly; thanks mom!

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#8:  Shouts and hugs were exchanged throughout the neighborhood — you’d have thought I’d won an Olympic gold medal.

I’ve always felt a void in my life, saying to myself: “I think I’m happy in my life, but am I making my neighbours happy too? What do they want?”  Well now I know how to make their dreams come true; Olympic medals all around!

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#7:  On my wedding night, a sense of calm finally washed over me, as I made my leap from bride to wife (armed with the Kama Sutra, which my cousins had downloaded onto my PDA as a gift).

I have always been nervous about having “relations”, but if marrying a dude of my parents’ choice means a downloaded copy of the “Kama Sutra”, I say “YES”!  A thousand times yes!

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#6:  I eyed his walk-in closet, courageously moving his suits into a smaller armoire. Judging from what remained, I had married an avid golfer, skier, and board-game player.

I like surprises, and nothing would surprise me more than finding out my husband’s hobbies AFTER we get married.  Five points for mystery!

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#5:  My husband bought me fashionable, sometimes sexy clothes, and we tested each others’ boundaries.

I have never worn sexy clothes before; I’m excited for my husband to buy me some.

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#4:  It was just like dating, only we were already married.

Why didn’t I realize this before?  It’s all the joys of dating, but you never have to go into “why won’t he call me?”-mode, ’cause you’ll already have him ”locked-in-for-life”.  Sucka!

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#3:  Slowly, I was getting to know my husband, even starting to fall in love with him.

WHAT!??!?! Does this chick mean to tell me I can “fall in LOVE” with my arranged marriage!?!?!?  Do you know what that means for a hopeless romantic like me???  WOW, arranged marriage = “You’ve Got Mail”…I am SOOO friggin’ excited

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#2:  Although my husband doesn’t always agree with his opinionated and selectively liberated wife, he openly expresses his love

I’ve only ever been interested in being “selectively” liberated (all of you already know this); so if I can be THAT, and still find a man who expresses his love, then colour me ecstatic!

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#1:  I discovered that having an arranged marriage was a great icebreaker, and my social circle mushroomed each time I retold my story.

Okay, THAT right THERE puts it over the top.  Honest to goodness, nothing means more to me than expanding my circle of friends, so if I can attract the masses by telling the world how I “married a stranger”, then sign-me-fucking-up!

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Alright then, if you’re reading this Mom and Dad, I’m ready; now get your asses to MarriageExpress.com, and find me a frickin’ prince!!

 

Shopping Mall Observations

Hello dear reader.

Today I’m in a different kind of mood.

Little Miss “Starbucks-Obsessed/Subway-Riding/Downtown-Trendy/Drugged-Up Workaholic” has flown from the coop, at least temporarily.

(4 days ago)…

…there I was, burnt out by all those sales stats and advertising plans and scary office meetings…what was I to do? Well…I did what any corporate-slut would do: I ran away…away from the numbers…away from the scary meetings; I ran as fast as my floppy clown-feet would go.

In the end, I wound up 50 miles away, but had I really made it anywhere new?

NO.  

As a matter of fact, I was back in my old hometown.  It was Romi’s “ol’ stompin’ ground”, the place where it all began.  More accurately though, it was the ”bloodied backdrop for my ancient battles with low self-esteem” (ahem…that was quite a mouthful; seriously though, please cue to the ”Gladiator” music).

The pathway to “Romi-Town” was not overwhelmed with weeds, nor was it draped in cobwebs.  To tell you the truth, it’s a journey I make pretty often…a couple times a month, to be exact.  The only difference?  My usual stops only last about 1 or 2 days (as they’re made for the purposes of: getting home-made food, visiting a childhood friend here or there, and OF COURSE, visiting/hugging my cat ).

This time though, I was in it for the long-run: 5 freakin’ days.  I’m now in day 4 of 5, and I gotta say, it’s pretty damn strange being back here, especially when my day-times are free and clear.  The siblings are here, the folks are here, but it ain’t Christmas; so wtf should I do?

That was my initial thought, so I did the only thing I could think of…

…I went to the mall.

And then…I went to the mall.  I basically spent the last 3 days at the mall. 

For anyone who’s lived in the super-suburban-suburbs, that’s pretty much the standard thing to do.  In MY town, there’s a one-level mall on either side of the city-limits.  I would argue that both these malls are EXACTLY the same (as many are), but you need to have two, so you can feel like you’re doing something different ;-) . 

Whilst spending these days re-connecting with “My Town”, a funny thing happened; I began re-connecting with the people in “My Town” too.  Every single person in the mall had a story, and in each and every case, I was thirsty to find out more.  I soaked up all the moments that my senses would allow, and recorded every detail in the notebook of my mind.

For a while all my thoughts just sat there; they were SO backed up, and I wasn’t even sure how I’d share them.  My mind was just a wreck of constipation (gross), but now that I’ve taken some pills, my thoughts are passing through at a healthy rate (too much info?)

Though I can’t fit it all on this blog, here are the highlights from ”the notebook of my mind”…a.k.a:

“Notes From the Mall” (abridged edition)

#1. Old Granny Drinking Iced Coffee

So I saw this wrinkled granny, and she was drinking iced coffee in the mall.  She naturally caught my eye, as the sunlight kept dancing on and off her silver hair.  I noticed a plastic bag sitting neatly under her chair.  This signaled a recent purchase.  That got me thinking: hmmm…what kind of stuff do grannies buy?  Old-lady cream? Long sweaters with giant buttons? Kitten Calendars? (oh wait, I buy those…).  I was terribly intrigued, but alas, it wasn’t a clear plastic bag, so I guess I would never know. 

I continued to ponder the granny, and eventually my eyes met hers.  This is the part where I’d describe our intense, 30-second stare-down.  In reality, she seemed either cataract-ridden or blind (hence the guide-dog sitting next to her), so it was likely a one-sided stare-off.  Nevertheless, those dark and murky eyes were frickin’ mesmerizing, to say the least.  There was a story behind those eyes…what was she trying to tell me? I channeled her spirit (I know she’s not dead yet, but whatever), and here’s what it told me:

-She was a lover of the arts, and had dabbled in some pottery (back in the 1950′s). She was never any good, but she had always frickin’ loved it… goddammit, that was good enough for me.

-She was also a lover of men, with a storied past of epic trysts.  She was one of those broads who had pleasured a bunch of presidents/prime ministers/movie stars from way-back-when, but she wasn’t about to kiss-and-tell. 

-She did have a couple of grand-kids, but her furrowed brow said she could’ve done without them.  I don’t blame her; kids are stupid and weird and unpredictable; they need to be caged, and fed crusty, day-old scraps.  It’s the only way to keep them in line.

-Overall, this wrinkly old broad had lived a hell of a life.  And the way that she sat there, cupping that delicious iced coffee, staring out at nothing, all blind and shit, it was dignified.  I love that granny, and I will never forget her.

#2: The Jewelry Store Dreamers

It had been a long while since I’d walked past a shopping-mall jeweler.  Though I only gazed-in for a minute or two, I saw two hearts slowly beating as one.  There they were, a couple of blushing lovers, checking out the “blingedy-bling” ring case .  I watched the ”Future Mrs.” push the ring through her stubby-ass finger, admiring a beauty that would forever eclipse her own.  Her trucker fiance looked on in a sweaty fashion, and I wondered where his head was at…How did he feel about relinquishing 3-months’ salary for a piece of rock? Was he okay with the fact that “a lifetime of love” would mean an extra 30-pounds of “wife”, in 2.5 years or less? I hope he was okay with that. 

Couple aside, I started thinking about ME as well.  “Where was Romi at” in life? The way I saw it, I was a silly little girl who just worked and worked and worked, whilst trying to save a good amount of cash.  And for WHAT?  I don’t know man, I don’t know…so here I was, this chick with some liquid assets, but where the fuck was my goddamn bling? I realized right then and there: I want more jewels.  If I have to go to  a jewelry store and buy it for my goddamn self, then FINE, but let it be known: I WANT MINE! So yeah, I’m gonna start buying lotsa gems for ROMI, and then I’m gonna wear them all .  It will show the world that I love ROMI, and it will make me look like a Christmas tree (which is always a good thing).  Okay then.

 #3 Teenage Love and All That Goodness

As my travels through the mall continued, I was hit with a bout of nostalgia, as I walked by the ice cream joint.  I saw some baby-birds in love, and it was…beautiful. 

You know what I love?  I love how teenagers  hold “half-hands”; like sometimes they only hold “pinky-fingers”, whilst dragging each other around, in a shaky and reckless fashion…it’s magical.  I also love how they rub each others’ bottoms, in that “devil-may-care” kinda way; I’d like to see a 40-year old try to pull that off.  My favorite part perhaps, is when the girl sits on her boyfriend’s lap, so they can start-up the porno-makeout, for all the world to see.  It’s even better when the ice cream makes its way into the mix, ohhh….hell yes .

As I watched these two go at it (whilst getting somewhat “excited” in the process ), I wondered if they’d ever find the path to life-long love…Judging by the way the teenage boy was groping his gal, he hadn’t been laid just yet. According to my calculations then, this romance would last for another two weeks (give or take).  This made me very happy.  I love ”love” . 

I’m not sure why this stuff makes me so nostalgic, when I never had these moments of my own.  I suppose it’s more like “imaginary-nostalgia”, and that’s alright with me too.  The only problem with imaginary-nostalgia, is that it makes you yearn for those feelings in the “here and now”, even if your chances are long in the past.  I guess that’s my own personal problem, and I’ll get through it, whether that leads to licking a 15-year-old’s face…or not.

———–

So there you have it, my journey through the mall. 

After spending those days in the mall, I finally stopped seeing fellow man as just “a blur”.  Instead, I remembered that we ALL have a story, a life, a dream.  In the process of connecting with my fellow man, I saw my own soul re-surface, a soul that had been noticeably MIA.  I’m not naive of course, ’cause I know I’ll go to work on Tuesday, and look at all those numbers, and go to all those meetings, and stomp on people’s necks (as required), ’cause hey…that’s what Romi does!  For a few short days though,  I was living a life in my town, and I saw my old soul staring back at me.  It was a beautiful thing, and I say “thanks” to all those people in the mall, ’cause YOU were the ones who made it happen.

That is all.

Thoughts On: Jerk-Face Boyfriends, Brad Pitt, and the Stupid NFL

1st Thought:

So I was out on Friday shopping, looking for a shirt.  Not just any shirt: a “sexy-mama” shirt.  It’s not always easy finding “sexy mama” shirts, because like many clothes, the only sizes you can find are extra-EXTRA-small, or parachute-large. 

On this day though, I found the perfect shirt in the perfect size: it’s a shirt that would tease the onlookers, with just the right amount of boob-a-licious flair.  And as a personal perk, it flowed away from the body, so as to hide all my pesky back-fat.

Success!

I got my ass in line so I could buy the frickin’ shirt; all I wanted to do was race home, so I could try on the shirt with my various leather pants.

Just as I was starting to transact, a man stormed past me, in a confrontational manner.

He looked almost exactly like Larry Birkhead.  If you STILL haven’t heard of Larry Birkhead, he’s this guy:

So the Larry-Birkhead-lookalike seemed pissed, but he started off calm, so he could reel the sales clerk in:

Larry-lookalike: “Hi, was security in here a little while ago?”

Sales Clerk: “No.”

Larry-lookalike: “So you didn’t call security here, and embarrass a woman who was shopping?”

Sales Clerk: “No sir.  There was no security in here today.”

Larry-lookalike (getting pissed): “So you’re telling me that my girlfriend is sitting at home crying, and making up the fact that you wouldn’t let her shop here, and that security kicked her out?”

Sales Clerk: “Well yes, that woman was in here, but she tried to use your credit card.  We simply told her that you had to be present, because it’s under your name.  She wasn’t able to buy anything, so she left.”

Larry-lookalike (laughing now, in a manical way): “Well I’m a lawyer, so we’ll just see what really happened!”.

And then he stormed off.

Hmm…

After that, all the clerks went and huddled in a corner, so they could talk some major smack about the “super-psycho-dude”.  

I myself was deeply affected by the scene.  I had never seen a dude try SO hard to be intimidating, while sporting highlighted hair, pursed full lips, and pointy groomed eyebrows.  And I LOVE the fact that he was a “lawyer”; he looked real “lawyer-ish”, in his board-shorts, Abercrombie T-shirt, and gross man-flip-flops. 

What I LOVE most, is that this stupid chick tried using her boyfriend’s credit card, and then had a hissy-fit, when she couldn’t pull off the scam.

I know it wasn’t my place to get involved, but this is what I wanted to say to the Larry-Birkhead-lookalike:

“Dude, if your chick’s so hard up for cash from being a waitress/”actress”, then maybe you should make her a co-signer on your frickin’ card.  Or maybe you should take her shopping and hold her purse, ’cause I’m thinkin’ that a purse would look really good on you.  Oh, and also, the next time you wanna accuse the store staff of being evil, maybe you should check if your girlfriend’s been taking her “don’t be a psycho” meds…”

I really wanted to say that, but I knew there was a slight, slight chance that the lookalike was packing heat.  Quite frankly, I didn’t wanna get shot.

So I purchased my “sexy mama” shirt and went home, all the while thinking: I wonder if the Larry-Birkhead-lookalike went back to the store, so he could go on a shooting rampage…or I wonder if he went home, so he could beat up his dumb-ass girlfriend…

 2nd Thought:

So maybe you heard that Brad Pitt got mauled at the Venice Film Festival.  I guess some adoring fan wanted to make-out with him or something.  While I applaud her determination, this chick had a crappy strategy.  I’m ALL FOR seducing A-List celebrities, but you CANNOT make a play when they’re out of their comfort-zone. 

Let’s use the Brad-Pitt Example as our key learning:  The chances of that chick sucking face with Brad Pitt were beyond low.  The film fest was a high-stress environment, full of potential danger.  All Pitt could focus on was: don’t get stabbed, shot, or poisoned.  In situations like that, Brad Pitt’s “candy shop” is closed.  REMEMBER THAT. 

So when can you visit “The Brad Pitt Candy Shop of Worldly Delights”?  Well…just listen to what I’ve got planned, and all your questions will be answered…

So Brad Pitt has some movie coming out or something; I think it’s about Jesse James (whoever that is).  Anyway, he’ll be promoting this flick at the Toronto Film Festival, because A: The Toronto Film Festival is well-known and awesome, and B: If he gives this movie lots of “festival buzz”, maybe he’ll get nominated for an Oscar.

Well first of all, Brad Pitt is in Toronto right now, breathing the same Toronto air as me. 

That gets me friggin’ hot. 

I need to cool down though, so I can focus on my master plan. 

Master Plan

-So I have this friend who works at the Toronto Four Seasons (for real), where Brad Pitt is currently staying.  She’s agreed to give me a key-card to Brad Pitt’s room (for a yet-to-be-determined favor, which will likely involve giving up my first-born child (unless it comes out all ugly and “monkey-ish”)).

-As soon as Brad Pitt leaves his room, my good friend will give me a call (a.k.a. green light).  At this point, I’ll sneakedy-sneak right into his lavish suite.  I will then undress, leaving nothing on but a sultry smile and a toe-ring.

-As I remove my clothing and tousle my hair, a maid will drop by.  She will leave me a cart full of mini “pillow-chocolates”…and some glue (as per her English-to-Spanish translated instructions).

-I will then proceed to glue 300 mini chocolates on every part of my body. 

-I will then lay seductively on his 4-poster bed, and wait….

-After a tough day of photo-ops and press junkets, Brad Pitt will sigh with exhaustion.  He’ll hurry back up to his Four Seasons suite, in search of nothing but the following: comfort, relaxation…and chocolate.

-He’ll burst through the gold-plated doors, and then he’ll rip off his shirt.  Suddenly he’ll turn to the bed, and that’s where he’ll find me, ready and waiting to be ravished.

-Once Brad is finished eating the 300 chocolates, he’ll probably throw up (not because I’m gross, but because that’s a lot of chocolate).  When he’s done throwing up and brushing his teeth, we’ll proceed to the marble bath-tub, where we’ll wash each other seductively, with those mini hotel soap bars.

-It’ll be the most amazing night of my life. 

The only variable in my plan is whether or not Angelina tags along.  If Mr. Pitt discovers my presence with Miss Jolie by his side, there’s an 80% chance that she’ll join in.  And well..I’m not gonna argue with that . There’s also a 20% chance that she’ll kill me, but the odds are pretty good.

So yeah, that is the RIGHT way to stalk/seduce celebrities, so stop trying to paw at them when they’re out in public!!! 

I hope you learned something today.

As always, you’re welcome.

3rd Thought:

So I kinda hate football.  I don’t mean the real “ball and foot sport” (i.e. soccer), but the men-humping-men type of football.  This is NOT a wise feeling to share, when you’re living in North America.  I might get shot if I say it in the streets.

Of course, the danger’s not as fierce here in Canada, ’cause good ol’ Hockey is #1.  I mean yeah, we have our own football league (the CFL), but it’s laughable at best.  

Despite the minimal danger, I’m around enough Canadian losers obsessed with their NFL (you know who you are).  It makes me wanna throw up.

This feeling was no more prevalent than in the last two weeks: it was the kick-off, to yet another thrilling season. 

These dudes I know spent hours pouring over their fantasy-team draft picks.  Then they got all high off of planning trips to Buffalo (Buffalo? YUCK), so they could watch the stupid Bills “get it on” with some other team.

My hatred for football is not from a lack of knowledge; I know plenty when it comes to ”downs”, and “field goals”, and “yards” and shit (before you get “fake”-impressed from me knowing about “yards”, please note that you should be “real”-impressed, as I’m a sexy child of the metric system). 

Despite being schooled on football, I don’t quite get the allure; what’s the point of running for two frickin’ seconds, only to end up locked in a triple-decker “man sandwich”?  Then they all grunt, try to run again, and end up in more “man-sandwiches”.  Eventually, the man-humper with the ball runs past a line, and then some points are scored (oooh, you ran past a line, big frickin’ deal!).  Oh, and THEN one of the humpers gets to kick a ball through a high-up goal.  I guess that’s the ONE athletic, skill-requiring element.  I’m soooo impressed….

Seriously, how the hell does anyone think that’s cool?

You might be thinking: “but Romi, if you hate football so much, then why don’t you hate other sports?”

Here are my answers:

 -Hockey: I’m not gonna say “I like it because I’m Canadian”.  If I say a thing like that, it will also be okay for Americans to like football ’cause they’re American.  And THAT is unacceptable.  You know why I like hockey? ‘Because despite the violence and somewhat regular “iced man-sandwiches”, those players have some MAD skills!  Just think about what they have to do: dance around hits, handle a puck, and make good shots, all while SKATING ON ICE!  Damn, that’s talent, and it requires a lot of balance; how could you NOT be impressed? If football players started balancing an egg on a spoon while doing their “football-crap”, I’d be really impressed, and I’d start wearing NFL T-shirts.

-Basketball: Listen dude, someone scores like every minute!  That’s about 2 whole hours of instant gratification; just TRY and tell me you’re not impressed!

-Baseball: This one’s a little slow, and sometimes a little boring.  Despite its minimal excitement, there are so many things going on.  It’s super-soaked in strategy, and plotting and adjustments, and there’s always potential for a big-time payoff.  It’s kinda like “man-chess”, and I like it.

And then there’s…football.  Seriously, how can it even compare? Now that I think about it, football reminds me of night-clubs, and nailing chicks….

Hear me out.

The field is like this one big night-club, and you and your teammates are out on the prowl.  You’re trying to make it to the end-zone (the chick you like), followed by that super-special point through the goal.  Think of the prong-like goal as your chick’s GIANT wide-set vagina (she’s a big-time whore, by the way).  That’s where you want to “aim-and-release” the kick, in a manner of speaking. 

So off you go with your team, making your way through the crowded club, trying to get to your chick.  And then of course, you run into some roadblocks.  All those opposing players? They’re like the chick’s protective friends; imagine a bunch of hens dancing around your gal, cock-blocking all your efforts.  It gets harder and harder to navigate, so you take a couple breaks, sip some vodka ‘n gatorade, and hope that your friends will pick up the slack. 

Once you get back on the dance floor, you have a few set-backs, and maybe you even fumble.  When this occurs, you’re suddenly on the defensive.  The cock-blocking-hens change shape, immediately becoming a bunch of horny dudes.  And their objective?  To make it to the end-zone, and stuff one through the goal.  And that GIANT wide-set vagina you’re protecting? Well now that’s your sister…those dudes are trying to NAIL your sister!!!  NOT cool.  This makes your team really angry, so you start doing anything to stop the horny dudes.  This usually means you have to hump them yourselves, but you’ll do it; it’s all about protecting the honor of your sister; your giant-vagina-toting sister…

Oh, and then we have those frickin’ field goals…A field goal isn’t a full-on bang, but more like a frisky 30-seconds in an elevator. This isn’t the number #1 objective, ’cause you only get 3 points; but hey, sometimes the options are limited…

Hmm…I guess when you look at it that way, football is pretty damn interesting! I think I’ve just added a whole new layer of interest, which allows me watch a ton of football, and actually enjoy it!

Hey, guess what? I LOVE football!

Wow, so I basically just solved my own problem, simply by talking it out (with myself).  That’s pretty cool…

Now I can go make T-shirts that look like this: a big burly leg kicking a ball, aiming it right towards a GIANT wide-set goal.  Everyone will think it’s a football shirt, but I’ll just laugh at the twisted double-meaning…hehe….